He, Who Judges
I've not remembered much, only that I stand here, writhing around in a pool of my own panic and fear. He scared me. That man over yonder, a simple... fleeting image, I was only able to grasp one of his characteristics. Deep, glowing violet eyes, clad in a black sweatshirt. His hands were hidden, stowed away neatly in his pockets, he stared at, no, through me. I've killed people, but this is the only time I felt like I was hopeless in the presence of somebody truly terrifying. It seems the only option available to me was to keep still, and await any further interaction. The man finally spoke out, a remarkably normal sounding tone, albeit a tad deep. "And you are?" His eyes narrowed. If he found me then why would he question? I didn't answer. He grunted. "I'm here because you've done something bad." Vague and curious, I'd have to answer soon enough, but his statements were beyond my comprehension, "What do you feel?" I'd respond, a mixture of cowardice and foolishness escapes my lips; "I feel nothing." "Nothing? A bit arrogant, no?" "I've done this for too long to feel anything." "Are you proud of yourself? To be able to admit something this heinous with an unsettling ease?" "I wouldn't say proud-" "Then what would you say?" We looked at each other, my heart skipping beats. There was an old legend; "He, Who Judges." It was a story about a spectre who'd go around and bring about an all new meaning of suffering to those he'd deem unfit to live; could this be him? Maybe it's just some overcompensating zealot - that must be it. I couldn't help but smile afterwards, smiling something fierce. "Oh, I wouldn't advise you to do that." He'd tilt his head. My grin grew wider. "Oh? Not a fan of joy?" "So you're another one of those edgy types, who think it's funny to to be faced with something that can pose a potentially mortal threat?" "You don't seem to understand who I am." "You're a murderer, we've skipped over this stone twice now." "You think I'd have no problem killing again?" At the mention he started walking towards me, and although I've come to my conclusion, there's still something ominous about him. "Do you know what it means to suffer?" he inquired. "Suffer? What do you mean?" "Of course not, because if you do, you wouldn't be a murderer correct? I'll be here to teach you exactly what that word entails." Taking up my bloodied cleaver, I rushed after him, that didn't break his stride however, he nonchalantly strode towards me, reaching out his arms as if giving himself to me, the fool. Lashing out, only to have him duck right under the blade, he pulls me into his embrace. "Suffer well." Everything goes black... "Logan? Get up it's time for school!" My eyes are open, what a crazy dream! I smiled wide, my mom's soothing voice rings in my ears as I grab my bag and head downstairs for breakfast. The day went by just fine, I've attended my classes and walked home, another swell day. Upon arriving on my porch, something felt strange, nobody was there to greet me, so naturally I open the door to head inside. The lights were switched off, and a scream pierces my ears. "Mother?!" I rushed into the kitchen, only to be greeted by the sight of my mother getting mutilated by a madman with a butcher's cleaver, he turned around and looked at me, his eyes were nothing but sadistic, I couldn't see any remorse within them... I fell to my knees, stricken by the sight. I looked up, only to realize who it was, it was I who killed her... but if that's me, then who am I? It hurt my head to think, only sorrow graced my conscience. My own mother was taken because whoever did it, simply felt like taking her. I was sad, angry, depressed, lonely... and I felt guilty. "It's truly a shame, isn't it?" I was graced by a familiar voice. He, Who Judges. "...What?" "Do you suffer? I'd assume witnessing your parent getting taken when you need them the most gets your blood boiling." "You knew about this?" "Perhaps." "I don't understand." "Do you know what it means to suffer?" "To suff-" "I'll ask again. Do you know what it means to suffer?" I only looked to the floor, tracing the tracks in the wood with my finger. That man deserved to die, however here I am, crying hopelessly on the floor. "I'm sorry." "My work here is done." The man simply walked out the door. Category:Mental Illness Category:Reality